


Empty

by blue_jack



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard sits in the chair and stares at the husk that is Jim Kirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by the wonderful caitri.

Leonard sits in the chair and stares at the husk that is Jim Kirk. It’s been five days since Spock discovered Jim lying collapsed on the planet surface, less than thirty meters from where O'Brien was standing. No one saw anything. No one knew anything. One minute, Jim's vital signs were normal, and the next . . .

There isn’t a mark on him. No sign of violence, no sign of even a damn bee sting, or whatever the hell the equivalent is on the damn planet. And Leonard has checked, he's gone over every centimeter of Jim's skin, has checked and rechecked and rechecked again, because a man doesn’t suddenly stop breathing, his heart doesn’t stop beating without _something_ causing it.

But there’s nothing. Nothing abnormal in his bloodstream, nothing unfamiliar in his stomach or lungs, there’s just . . . nothing.

Leonard was able to get his heart started up again right there on the transporter pad, felt a flare of hope through the rigid control that kept his fingers steady and his mind clear, except that was almost worse, because two minutes later, the sound of Jim flatlining for no apparent reason—nothing, he couldn't find _anything_ —nearly incapacitated him, because it didn't make sense, he didn't understand _how_ —there was no reason for it, Jim isn’t genetically predisposed for heart failure or a stroke, and there was nothing—

The third time Leonard got Jim’s heart to work again, even when voices urged him to give up, when hands tugged at his shoulders and the soft sound of weeping filled that sinister silence, the third time, it kept beating, sluggish and weak but there. That was a triumph. That made Leonard lock himself in his office—had to stay close to Jim, because what if—and sit hunched over his desk, fists digging into his eyes in an effort to keep the tears from falling.

Leonard thought he knew better than to hope; life has taught him that hope is cruel, hope kills in small, agonizing increments, and it refuses to die, even when there’s nothing worth hoping for. But for Jim . . . for Jim, he prays and he hopes and he makes promises to anything and anyone willing to listen— _don’t let Jim die, please, don’t let him die_.

But nothing has changed over the past five days. Jim hasn’t woken up, hasn’t reacted to stimuli, shows only the barest minimum of brain activity. Machines keep Jim alive now. Or whatever this is.

He doesn’t even look like Jim anymore. All the personality and intelligence that make Jim so unique—so full of _life_ —are gone. Jim has always been pale, but now he has dark hollows in his face, his cheeks are sunken, even though that shouldn't be the case since it’s only been five days, since the machines can keep a man going indefinitely, but it’s as if whatever condition he has is sucking the vitality right out of him. He looks like—

Leonard shies away from that thought, refuses to even consider it, focuses instead on the barely perceptible rise and fall of Jim's chest.

He’s so still. In all the years they've known each other, Leonard has never seen Jim be this still. Even in sleep, Jim is restless, moving constantly. He doesn’t thrash around, but it’s as if his body has too much energy to be satisfied with just lying there; he twists, he turns, he mumbles as he dreams, he never just lies there. Not like this.

They sent another away team down, maximum security, everyone in pairs as they scoured the area. Nothing.

Nothing.

Spock even tried to do his hocus pocus mind-meld, sat next to Jim for over an hour while Leonard kept vigil, alternating looking at Jim's face to Spock's to the damn monitor just to start the whole thing over again, but there was never any change. And when Spock finally opened his eyes, all he said to Leonard was _there is nothing there_ , refused to say anything more, even when Leonard railed and demanded to know what the point had been then, _what was the fucking point_ , and what the hell is Spock good for then, if he can’t even fix Jim?

What is he good for if he can’t fix Jim?

“Jim. Jim, you have to wake up.” Leonard slides his hand underneath Jim’s, cool and unresponsive. “You—Spock is planning to leave orbit, to head to the nearest Federation space station to get you better treatment. You’re deteriorating faster than—there are—there are things we don’t—we can’t—” He clears his throat. “They want you back on Earth. They think—Jim, Jim, wake up. _Wake up_.”

Leonard closes his eyes, rests his forehead on the back of Jim’s hand, hiding his face.

If they take Jim to Earth, will Starfleet let Leonard stay, too? He signed that damn contract, but . . . they have to, they have to because, because it’s Jim, it’s _Jim_ , and Leonard has been Jim’s doctor for years, knows his file inside and out, is better qualified than anyone else to take care of him. And his is a familiar voice, a trusted face, and everyone knows patients do better when they have loved ones around them.

Jim _needs_ Leonard. He needs him.

He wants to shake Jim suddenly, wants to yell at him to get his fucking act together and get out of that damn bed, to open his damn eyes already and stop scaring him, to wake up, wake up, WAKE UP—

Leonard pulls his hand away from Jim's slowly, makes himself relax his grip even though everything in him screams that he should hold on tighter, curls his hands into fists instead until he can feel his nails burrowing into his palms.

"Jim,” he says hoarsely. “Please."

His hand isn’t quite steady as he reaches out to stroke Jim’s hair, pulls back before he can quite make contact. There’s no reason for it. But touching Jim’s face is different than touching his hand, even though it shouldn’t be. Leonard has been around sickness and death for so long that he no longer flinches in the face of it, can be, has to be the one who can look beyond the physical ravages of whatever condition his patient has and see the person within.

But this is Jim.

Leonard has never been one of those people that think sickness is beautiful. No matter what the poets say, sickness is ugly, it’s blood and vomit and piss and feces, it’s a smell that never seems to disappear completely, a stain that never washes clean. And he hates how this has reduced Jim to this wasted shell, hates that Jim has allowed himself to be brought low, hates how much this reminds him of another time when he was just as helpless, just as—

“You were always so fucking selfish.” Leonard’s eyes widen at the words that have just left his mouth, because Jim isn’t, he isn’t selfish, cares too much in fact about the things other people want. But it’s as if he can’t stop himself. “Always so full of yourself, never thinking about how the things you do affect other people. You’re weren’t even supposed to be on the planet! That’s what Spock is for! You’re the damn captain, and it’s your job to take care of the people and the ship! People depend on you! You’re supposed to be stronger than this, damn you! Wake _up_ , Jim! You’re not sick! _You’re not sick_!”

It’s only when he’s finished, standing there, chest heaving, throat tight, that Leonard realizes he’s been shouting.

Fuck. What the hell is he doing? If he saw a visitor acting like Leonard just has, he would kick him out on his ass and refuse to ever let him back in. What is he doing?

“I’m sorry.” He passes one hand over his face and takes a deep breath, lets it out until he feels hollow inside, empty. Then he carefully rights the chair he’s knocked over and sits down. He takes Jim’s hand again, forces himself to look at Jim’s face. “I’m sorry.”

His fault. This is his failure, _his_ , no one else’s. All those years of training, and for what? This is his job, the one thing they brought him on the damn ship to do, and he can’t—he can’t—

Jim isn’t dying. Whatever this is, they still have time. It’s been five days. People come out of comas that last for weeks, months, sometimes years. Once they get to a station, they’ll be able to slow his rate of decline, be able to—Leonard will stay with him, and they’ll be able to . . .

“Jim.”

Leonard bows his head.

He knows how horribly unfair life is, knows that good and bad never have anything to do with health or happiness, but Jim is so young, has already suffered so much. And Leonard has only gotten to be with him for such a short time, has been too scared to—has never—

Jim approached him once when they were both drinking, although neither of them were as drunk as they pretended to be later, offered Leonard something that still makes his heart pound every time he remembers it. Leonard turned him down, pretended he wasn’t interested in Jim as anything besides a friend, and Jim accepted it, never brought it up again. But he's seen the looks Jim's given him since then, just this side of wistful, and he knows that Jim hasn’t forgotten or completely given up on him.

But even though Leonard loves Jim, has been in love with him almost as long as he can remember, the thought of _being_ with Jim has always been wrong. There are only a handful of people who love him, Jim the most important of them all, and Leonard knows that no matter how good things can be, they can always be worse, they always _get_ worse, and the thought of Jim leaving him—

He stares at the biobed.

The thought of Jim leaving him has always prevented him from taking Jim up on the promise in those eyes.

_Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim . . ._

There have been times in the past when Leonard has been elbow deep in Jim’s blood, when he’s had to bring Jim back from the very edge, all battered and broken, and Leonard doesn’t know why those time were so different, but this . . . this . . . maybe it’s that Leonard just hasn’t had the time to understand in the past, was fighting every step of the way, has seen Jim’s bones and skin knit together under his hands and known that Death won’t get his due, not today, has been able to _do something_ in the face of it all.

He’s never had to stand by and watch as Jim slowly fades away.

Will it really hurt so much less if Jim leaves him against his will, permanently, than if he leaves him voluntarily but is still alive?

Maybe.

No.

No! Of course not! No! He bites his lip, cradles Jim’s hand against his cheek. Fuck, what is he thinking? How can he be so frightened of being left behind that he thinks for even one second life would somehow be better without Jim in it? He’s such a damn coward. How can Jim even want him? Jim, who’s brave enough to still look at him like that, even when Leonard keeps looking away.

"Don't—” He clears his throat, starts off slow, but soon the words are tripping over each other in his haste to get them out. “Don't leave me. Jim. Don't. Not you. I couldn't—if you left me, Jim—if you leave me . . . you can't go somewhere I can't follow. Do you hear me? If you go . . . Jim, I can't—you can't go somewhere I can't follow, damn you!"

He coughs, wipes at his face, holds onto Jim’s hand like he can anchor him in place.

“Jim . . .”

\-----

“Doctor! Doctor, it’s the captain! Come quick!”

Leonard startles awake, is already staggering out of his chair before he even processes what Chapel has said, is almost to his door when a biobed started wailing like a klaxon, screaming throughout Sickbay. No, no, it can’t be . . .

He runs, everything in him denying what he will find, skids around the corner and sees—

Sees Chapel trying to push Jim down as he struggles to get upright, eyes wild, bloody tubes trailing behind him.

“Get him sedated!” It physically hurts Leonard to say it when Jim has been unconscious for so long, has just woken up and what if—

But Jim is doing serious damage to himself, confused and somehow not recognizing anyone, and they need to get him calm, can’t afford to let him hurt himself or someone else. Leonard shoves Jim down, almost climbs on top of him to keep him from lashing out—he feels brittle, thin, feels like Leonard will break him—and yells for someone to get him a hypospray.

And later, as he sits by Jim’s bed and listens to his slow breaths, sees him twitch in his sleep and murmur fretfully, Leonard remembers the instant when recognition finally sparked in Jim’s eyes seconds before they closed, recognition and relief, and Leonard cries until there are no more tears and each shuddering breath contains Jim’s name.

\-----

“It was the absence of any trace of mental activity that aroused my suspicion. Even comatose individuals dream, however, the captain displayed—”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Leonard is ready to shake Spock, he’s so pissed off. Not that he doesn’t appreciate Spock for figuring out what happened, that one of the plants on the surface of the planet is somehow capable of stealing organisms’ thoughts, their _minds_ , and using the essences it’s taken to create seeds while the bodies are wrapped in its roots and digested slowly. Just a touch, and the victim is as good as dead. If it weren’t for the fact that they’d beamed Jim’s body back to the ship, robbing the plant of its food source so it didn’t have the energy to proceed . . .

Leonard almost shudders every time he thinks of what almost happened. And yeah, he’s grateful, but for Spock to not even mention that he thought he might know what was wrong with Jim . . .

“It was merely a hypothesis, and one that I did not believe you would give credence to.”

“You still could have told me, you damn—”

“Can’t a man get any sleep around here?”

They both turn to look at Jim, lying on the biobed, looking exhausted and worn but finally unhooked from all the machines that have kept his body going while the rest of him was trapped.

“You two argue like an old married couple.”

“He started it—”

“I do not believe the comparison is justified—”

Jim chuckles softly. “Good to know that nothing changed while I was gone.”

“Jim—”

“Captain—”

Leonard glares at Spock. “You heard the man! You’ve already caught him up on all the ship’s business, and anything else can wait till tomorrow. He needs his sleep!”

He doesn’t know how Spock manages to keep his air of dignity about him even while being kicked out of Sickbay, but there it is. He shakes his head.

“You doing okay?”

Leonard turns back to Jim. “I’m the one who’s supposed to ask you that.”

Jim smiles, and if it’s only a shadow of what it normally is, at least it’s still a smile. “Maybe so, but I have to tell you, you look like shit right now.”

“And whose fault is that?” He puts his hands on and his hips and glares down. “If you wouldn’t keep taking years off my life with the stunts you pull, I’d be as fit as a fucking fiddle.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll try to do better next time.”

Leonard snorts to show how much he believes that load of crap. “Get some rest,” he says and turns away like he won’t sneak back to Jim’s bed in five minutes to make sure he’s still breathing, won’t stand there and reassure himself that Jim is alright.

"All I've been doing is getting rest. I'm tired of sleeping. I need some excitement in my life." He turns back around, and Leonard's mouth twitches as Jim chooses that moment to yawn wide enough to break his jaw, only to look disgusted with himself afterward.

"The most exciting thing you get to look forward to is moving to solid foods." He does smile then at Jim's scowl. "Go to sleep, Jim. You can complain some more later."

"I don't complain. I'm the best patient you've got."

"You're the only patient I've got right now!"

"Exactly!"

He shakes his head. "Idiot. Go to sleep." He slips away before Jim can argue with him further, but only three minutes pass before he’s back, listening carefully—a mumbled hum, the rustle of blanket—before rounding the corner. It’s almost disorienting how his days have shifted, from counting how long it’s been since Jim became unconscious to how long it’s been since Jim woke up. A part of him still can’t believe it, that it’s over, that there’s no reason to worry anymore. Not until the next time at least.

He stands next to the bed, isn’t afraid of looking at Jim anymore, can’t get enough of it, just soaks the sight of him in, like it can fill all the empty places Jim's coma has carved out of him.

Leonard notices Jim’s shifting has made the blanket fall down around his waist, so he leans forward, pulling it up to cover Jim’s chest and then smoothing down the sides. When he looks back up, it’s to see Jim’s half-closed eyes on him, one side of his mouth turned up in a half-smile, although Jim doesn’t seem amused to have found him out. He looks . . . resigned.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Leonard says accusingly, the first thing that pops into his head, covering how disturbed he is by Jim’s expression. Jim isn’t the type of man to passively accept anything.

Jim huffs a short laugh. “I know, I know!” He rolls onto his side, facing away from him, and Leonard likes that even less, feeling shut out almost. But Jim’s voice is light as he says, “Now I know everything’s back to normal with all this bossing me around, Bones. I have to admit, I kind of missed it.”

Leonard frowns. They haven’t had a chance to talk about it much, but Jim told him he was aware the whole time he was separated from his body, spent the damn week being able to do nothing but think and wait and think and wait some more.

The question that nags Leonard is, just what did he think about? Because he’s different, he’s quiet, and the looks he’s been giving Leonard . . .

He wants to ask, wants to _know_ , but for all the talking Jim has done since he came to, he hasn’t _said_ much of anything yet, and Leonard wonders if maybe . . . maybe it’s too late, maybe Jim has given up on him.

He rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose before sighing quietly and dropping his hand. And what if he has? Jim’s okay, and that’s all that really matters. It doesn’t—sure, Leonard hoped—it isn’t worth trying to change things when . . .

Not if Jim doesn’t want . . .

He can’t stop looking at Jim who still has his back to him.

Except . . . except it is.

And he—he fucking made up his mind to do something about it when Jim came back to him, promised himself he wouldn’t let another opportunity pass him by, and Jim—Jim doesn’t get to come to his senses and realize how stupid he’s been for falling for Leonard in the first place. He doesn’t get to change his mind right when Leonard’s about to tell him he’s been a jackass for not admitting how he feels sooner. He’s had his chance to walk away from Leonard in the five damn years they’ve known each other, and it’s too late, _too fucking late_ for him to back out of being with Leonard now!

“Not,” he swallows, angry and nervous and hoping to hell he hasn’t messed things up beyond repair, “not half as much as I missed you, Jim.” He reaches out and pulls on Jim’s shoulder gently, refusing to allow his hand to be anything less than rock steady as he urges Jim onto his back, has to stifle the semi-hysterical impulse to laugh when he sees the wide-eyed look on Jim’s face. He swallows again, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “I missed you so damn much.”

“You did?” Jim sounds surprised, but there it is again, that wistful look that punches Leonard in the gut each time he sees it, although now, now it’s more hopeful than sad.

“Of course I did, you—you stupid ass.” He grabs Jim’s hand, holds it tightly as relief and giddiness course through him. “Of course I did.”

And this time when Jim smiles, it fills all the emptiness inside of him to overflowing.


End file.
